


Twisted Mind

by MrPavlin



Category: Trollhunters (Cartoon)
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Heavy Angst, Knifeplay, Love/Hate, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 23:20:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10581591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrPavlin/pseuds/MrPavlin
Summary: Jim lies to everyone: to his mother, to Toby and Clair, to Blinky and Aaaaaargh, to Draal, but not to Strickler. Jim knows there is a little knife in the pocket of Strickler’s jacket, light as a feather, sharp as moment of death. Jim is afraid of this knife more than of the swords of Angor Rot, even though merciless blade had never touched his body. With this knife Strickler scratches crimson strips on his arms and at the same time on the arms of Barbara Lake





	

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Вывихи психики](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10451010) by [MrPavlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrPavlin/pseuds/MrPavlin). 



> Special thanks to my sister, who helped me as editor with this translation

Jim kisses ring on the slim spider finger, bowing down like a knight who is greeting his Lord. But instead of armor he is dressed in his old blue jacket and jeans, rubbed on knees to holes.

Sharp edges of the gem, which are yellow like eyes of the beast, burn his lips with chillness of Ninth Circle of Dante’s Hell. Strickler’s fingers are as cold as this gem. It seems like his every touch is marking a young boy’s face with icy fingerprints, but Jim, stained from his head to his feet many nights ago, doesn’t even flinch, when these damn bloodless fingers squeeze his chin, make him throw his head back till neck crunch and force him to look into phosphorous glowing eyes.

– How was your day, Young Atlas? – Strickler asks. In the gloomy darkness he is not seen. There are only his voice and eyes.

– Nothing new, sir. Right after school I went to the Trollmarket and there I trained with Blinky, - Jim tries to speak calm but his voice is trembling and every his word sounds like unforgivable lie. His self-control, tempered by all these countless fights and trainings, breaks down like a sand castle under Strickler’s heavy burning gaze. If only Jim could turn away and gibber the truth in one breath, honestly as a prayer. But Jim can’t break the eye-contact, he cannot even blink, because “you mustn’t turn away, Jim Lake Jr., I want to see your eyes, when you lie to me”. What an old psychological trick, irrelevant in their duet.

Jim lies to everyone: to his mother, to Toby and Clair, to Blinky and Aaaaaargh, to Draal, but not to Strickler. Jim knows there is a little knife in the pocket of Strickler’s jacket, light as a feather, sharp as moment of death, one touch of which can easily cause beads of blood on the paper-thin skin. Jim is afraid of this knife more than of the swords of Angor Rot, even though merciless blade had never touched his body. With this knife Strickler scratches crimson strips on his arms and at the same time on the arms of Barbara Lake, who is many streets far from him. Strickler scratches his own arms, enjoys the veins’ wine on the skin, glances at Jim, smiles, almost tenderly asks: “Are you satisfied now, Jim Lake Jr.? You made your mother suffer again”.

Terrible little knife, terrible man with hands like white spiders. They hold Jim’s face, burn his cheekbones and temple with a hot iron. Slender fingertips put non-existent needles in obediently open lips – dry because of anger – before the other’s lips - sharp after everlasting smirk - touch them. Distinctly, just as reality, Jim feels phantom coldness of knife’s blade on his neck, while allowing Strickler to kiss him.

When Strickler kissed him for the first time, suddenly (just like shot in the face), aggressive, grip a fistful of hair on boy’s back of the head as a nape of fantastic beast, Jim broke his lips to blood and ran away. And in the evening he saw dark-red blaze on the face of his mother.

“Where could I get it?” – asked Barbara Lake, looking in the mirror, and then, touching wounded lips, silently hissed in pain.

Dying of desperation, that night Jim washed his mouth with soap, and in the morning dead scales of alkali remained on his lips and face. He was walking to school, not listening to Toby’s chattering, left unnoticed Clair’s greeting, wondered in the mist and then suddenly woke up, stood still like a rabbit, charmed by snake, when in the empty hall (it was during class time, Jim was sent in library for the dictionaries) poisonous voice called him. 

Because of wound Strickler could smile only with one side of his mouth. The other side, swelled up and dark-ruby was sadly lowed. Not a human face, just a grotesque two-faced mask from the Greek tragedy, it suits perfectly this damn changeling. 

“I guess, you’ve already understood, how reckless you were yesterday. I’m afraid to imagine how your mother looks like now. Such a beautiful woman and broken lips… Don’t you care about her, Jim?”

Jim stayed, starring at the floor, squeezing his teeth, and tried to control fury, running out with beasty roar from his throat and shameful humidity from his eyes. His lungs rejected to breath. His own body, so frighten at the face of death, programmed by nature to survive at any cost, offered him better suicide but to escape the shame. Knife along, not across... No, not by knife. Better to steal some sleeping pills from the medicine cheat and fall asleep forever. It’s horribly easy way, on which he had no rights.

“I will wait for you at ten o’clock in my office. Try not to be late.”

“Or a scar on the hand would be added to broken lips”, - Strickler didn’t say it aloud, but these words distinctly thundered in the sounds of his leaving steps.

Jim came back at the classroom without dictionaries in ten minutes before the bell rang, just after burningly cold water had removed all the stains of weakness from his face. Only in angles of his eyes foully stilled inflammation, and when he sat down at his place, anonymous gossiping whisper reached his ears: “Hey, was he crying?” 

Toby demanded answers. Clair, tenderly holding Jim’s hand, looking at him with true compassion, asked him to trust her and to tell her the truth. They both had suspected something bad, because, offering the most pity excuses, Jim had walked away somewhere too often. Well, somewhere located in the school. At night, starring at the city with its lifeless window-eyes, school looked like a dreaming monster. What a foolish thing. The real monster every night had been sitting in his office, drinking cheap coffee made by coffee machine in the teachers’ room, absently clicking pen and suddenly pulling his head at the sound of opening door. It seamed to be that every time Strickler didn’t believe that Jim would come.

 

What have they been doing in the empty school, where was nobody (we won’t count sleeping in his office security, sometimes walking in the corridors hand to hand with his insomnia) except them?

They have been playing the piano a quatre mains. At junior school Jim used to attend music classes. During them the teacher, a pretty young woman, tutored every kid who wanted to play the piano, and it seemed to be like Jim was quite good at it. Unfortunately, ambitious and young teacher to the strains of the Mendelssohn’s wedding march flied away from quite Arcadia Oak, leaved in Jim’s memories a few golden autumn days and childish noisy waltz, which his fingers still remember after all these years. Strickler was amused a little by this absurdity, and then he, lightly smiling, coyly pulled his hands, making sleeves of his roll-neck sweater – he have always took off his coat, when they sat down at the piano, - catch up higher, and played unknown melody, lightly-lachrymose, echoing with whispers of early spring. His fingers faintly touched the keys, pressing them tenderly, softly, like they were made of the thinnest glass. Always so straight-out and prideful, he suddenly hunched up, hubris and smirk had gone from his face, disappeared even an arsenical poison in his eyes.

Strickler became clear movement, honed over the centuries. And Jim, hating him with every cell of his soul, was staring at him and just couldn’t kill an unbidden admiration inside of him. Fortunately, delusion died, when a last sound of music calmed down. Strickler, fixed neckband of his sweater and said with smirk: “But, I’m afraid, my young friend, it will take a lot of time before you will be able to play it. It’s better for you now to hone this “dog waltz”.”

What the hell was in the head of this crazy man? Jim couldn’t understand and, honestly, he didn’t care much. Maybe this loony changeling was so sick of boredom and permissiveness that decided besides school principal to play also a role of music teacher. And a chess trainer.

Sometimes, tired of never ending moans of piano keys, only vaguely resembling music with a distant hectic melody, they sat down at checkered desk and started monochrome war. Strickler always commanded the black ones and every time, having placed all lifeless wooden figures, said through thin grin: “Your turn is first, Young Atlas”. It was an imaginary and senseless advantage. For the whole infinity of their nights Jim had never won a single game. The only thing he reached was standoff, promted by omnipotent rival in a moment before the check.

To prompt to his own enemy was a strange habit of Strickler. Having looked through the mediocre fly of the boy’s thoughts, he could calmly advice Jim to go step back and put forgotten strategically powerful knight on the place of black rook, walking so close to slim queen with prong crown on a round head. But Strickler’s advices calmed down, when play became close to the final moves, and then Strickler with two confident accords had ended the war, throwing down white king, leaving Jim starring at the checked emptiness of lose. If only he could win…

Chess, piano and intense conversation in style of Hannibal Lector – these are the constant ingredients of their nights, reminding after time allergic irritation at the sounds of keys, monochrome squares and word “Atlas”. And also there is something Jim hopes to scratch from his skin with a firm wisp and a rose soap. 

Dear Clair would never know, how marks of hatred lips scorch his neck, his shoulders, sharp outline of collarbone, salient awn of ilium. Even after drinking bravery, he wouldn’t tell Toby how his bones moaned in the snake embrace, how his mind was crumbles in a glass dust and darkness was breaths with his hoarse voice. And, of course, he would never tell his mother, that her beloved Strickler, when he is sleeping, is so painfully dolorous, that Jim doesn’t know what does he want to do more: to embrace him or to cut his throat.

 

Almost drown in the dark waters of memories, Jim wrinkles in phantom agony and instinctively shrinks back. The broken kiss freezes on his lips, he wants to wipe them with jacket sleeve, but he can’t. Cold hand pets his hair benignly. Good boy. Get up from your knees.

This night Jim plays alone for the fist time, and piano seems so wide when thin spider wrist isn’t flaring near, sometimes running into his sluggish hands. It’s so strange not to see with lateral vision moon gleam of grayness on temple, sharp lines of hooked nose and these eyes, familiar hated, shaded by dark stroke of eyelashes. Jim plays alone, and his fingers awkwardly, but correctly touch the right keys, and inside his heart is clenched with claws of terrible realization. He feels uncomfortable. He, god damn, feels uncomfortable without Strickler near him, without his whispering “A little faster, Jim. Don’t flounder, you’re doing all well.”

Transformed into shadow, Strickler reclines on the sofa with glass of wine in his hand. Tonight he drinks Pinot Noir “The Crusher”. The wine is so dark that it looks like he spilled his own blood in glass and now tastes it. Tastes and keeps silent, listens how tenderly cries the piano under artless sincere touches of Jim. Don’t stop, play, play…

In the clerical silence of school the music sounds specially young, it’s echo, reverberated from gray walls, flies across the floors like a slight spring nymph whose fortune is to be turn to a foam like a mermaid. But its spirit, mixed up with sweet smell of wine, stays in the office air for a long time even after Jim makes the last chord and freezes, fading in dying sounds. His heart trembles in reverence. If only he could play this beautiful music for mother or Clair… But his only listener – hated till the cloud of reason Strickler, whose predacious eyes he feels with every his vertebra. 

These eyes… Chilling sharpness of the emerald edges, misty dampness of the forgotten forests, poison caged in glass flask.

Every time Jim looks in these eyes, he sees the reflection of blade and hears the knife knocking the table in a few millimeters from his fingers – the ghost of one of the first nights. Dying music hoots in the air and it seems to Jim that a thoughtful voice asks him if he had ever played the knife play. Icy spasm squeezes boy’s heart with fear. His memory is a damn bitch, playing along with Strickler. 

Forget it! Only don’t remind how… How spider fingers were playfully spinning the knife shining deathly, so sharp that it was terrible even to look at it. The knife, which made tiger stripes on the left hand from wrist to elbow. A strange reckless freezed on Strickler’s face. It seemed that he didn’t care at all if he would be hurt or not. And then he said: “Give me your hand, Young Atlas”. Not daring to refuse, Jim obeyed, and his hand laid down the table. Suddenly a realization shouted him in the head. Strickler hadn’t given him knife how the play demanded but squeezed it stronger in his hand. Jim recoiled frantically and harshly, tried to escape but the other’s fingers squeezed firmly his wrist in gripe till bones crunch and lilac stains. 

– What the hell are you doing?!  
\- I’m teaching you to trust, Young Atlas. You know, it’s like in that test in which you fall back and the others catch you, but we have a little bit different rules. Relax and spread your finger or I could accidently hurt you.  
\- Go to hell! I don’t trust you! And never will do it! Let me go! Let me go, damn you!”

A sharp flash of pain leaved Jim without his voice. His little finger was burned, and flares of the flash froze in thin scratch and crawled with a little drop. The knife stuck in the table near his hand. Air started to sing a plumbum metal soprano, it was echoed by monotone mad drumroll of fear.

Strickler counted one, Strickler counted two. Strickler thought that everything should be like he wanted. 

Jim stopped moving. As viewer from the side, as an apathetic gray stranger without personality he was looking how his hand spread out on the table like a laboratory frog, how paled fingers strongly griped the knife. “Look into my eyes, Young Atlas” - he heard in a moment before metal had pierced the wood.

Don’t think about the knife, - Jim commanded to himself. Just look in his damn eyes, in these attentive eyes, green as unripe apples, sour taste of which kills teeth with acid and hidden sweetness. Look there and don’t think that the knife, this quick deadly sting – sting of the wasp, poisonous nit, not of the bee, which dies after hurting, - stabs emptiness between your trembling fingers. Look in his eyes and think how you hate him, a monster from an old German fairytale, how you will turn his thin cheek-bone face, almost beautiful, shining with pale-moon charm, in an ugly bloody mess. Look at him and try to catch in crack of wood his choked moaning, when with your heavy metal boot you will hit him in the solar plexus, kicking from him pride and tears. Look into his eyes and remember – he will pay for everything he had done.

The knife stabbed table between the forefinger and middle finger. Freedom scorch wrist. Jim pulled back, wildly stared on his hand like on something extraneous. Except a scratch on the little finger his hand was untouched by wicked blade. He was so close to sign in relief when suddenly Strickler gave him the knife and calmly said: “It’s your turn”.

Deathlike pallor spread upon young face. Jim whispered, forgetting to breathe: “No… No… Please, no!” – while Strickler’s hands was putting a knife in his fingers, forcing him to go back to the table. Jim hadn’t play for a hundred years. He would surely hurt this damn changeling! And at the same time he would hurt his mother. With the same fingers, which took off glasses from her face, when she had fallen asleep even without changing her clothes. 

He begged, fetched away from clingy vulture claws, tried to through knife in the window, roared, almost cried. “Please, I beg you! I will do anything except it!” His lips desperately covered firm hands, holding the darn knife, with kisses. Anything, every humiliation but except hurting this goddamn spider hands, mystically connected with warm mother’s hands, soft as cream. 

But Strickler cold-bloodedly wrested his hand, silently gave Jim the knife and looked at him in such way that weak hope for mercy shot itself in the mouth. Jim had no choice, he felt his rejection would cost him more blood, and the knife stabbed the table between slender spider fingers. Slowly, very slowly, barely speeding up Jim was ripping wooden surface covered by scratches farther from the wide hand, and all his body was beaten by deranged shiver. Strickler’s free hand laid on his shoulder in a trivial gesture of comfort and support. He whispered: “Faster, Young Atlas. Don’t be scared”.

The knife, self-willed, ruthless, real impersonation of his owner, was gaining speed, flared faster and faster, it was hard now even to notice it. Hot wooden rhythm sounded like rattle of castanets. Faster and faster. 

Concentrate on the knife, Jim, don’t think about anything, turn into move, become the extension of your own arm. Like this. You are not scared. You are the knife. You are the sharpness of blade and the blunt curve of handgrip. You are not…

“Look into my eyes, Jim Lake”.

Green flare blinds only for a moment, but it’s enough for knife to reach the wanted flesh. Chocked scream. Gurgling laugh. 

Blood dripped on the table, covered fingers and wrist like fluid glove.

“What the hell are you doing?! Do you, god damn, like when you are hurt?! Then break the bonding spell and I will cut you off so there would be no inch untouched on you! Shit… shit! You are crazy bastard! Die! Go to Hell! Oh Lord…”

Jim was screaming swear words and curses, drowned in desperation, while Strickler, calm to shiver, was bandaging his hand, which bleed stigmatically. Sleeves of his coat and sweater turned black because of blood. The whole floor was in the sticky drops. Virgin white bandage was becoming red instantly layer after layer. What an awfully deep cut. And almost the same cut was smudging bed sheets while Barbara Lake, woken up in the middle of the night in a sudden pain, tried to understand what was going on. 

“Why the hell do you hate me so bad…” – roared Jim had lowed his head. Tears were burning his face but he didn’t even try to wipe them off. Broken by hopelessness, he dissolved in a flaming hell inside him for a moment and then reality sobered him, dragged him in a forced embrace, squeezed his shoulders, almost tenderly swished his hair and whispered in his ear with insinuating voice:

“I don’t hate you, Jim Lake Jr. I like you. Remember, I said it to you the day you stayed with me after classes. Nothing has changed since then, but you would hardly believe me. After all I have done… I won’t offer excuses. Just understand that I have a choice: I’ll kill you or I’ll control every breath you take. That’s awful but there is no other way. We are not in a fairytale, my patient boy. Get used to it. That’s it. Don’t cry. I’m sorry, I won’t remain you anything good, only a twisted mind. I know you won’t forgive me, but it doesn’t matter… It doesn’t matter…”

 

Jim puts down the piano cover, drowning out his memories with its sound loud as shot. Strickler stays behind him, voiceless, ghostlike, and felt by every vertebra. And it seems to Jim that his spine now is eleven blades and eight stings. And the one, who hurts and then humbly wait, took boy’s lowed forceless hand with weakness running in the veins, and kisses broken to blood knuckles closing his yellow wolf’s eyes. And it’s more painful than the knife stab.


End file.
